Through the looking glass
by Lizella
Summary: Sylvias death and how it effected those who loved her. The way they try to keep living and their adventures in the future.
1. Those she left behind

Authoress note: There are too few "Finding Neverland" fanfictions in here and out there, that is a fact. Now I saw the movie a few days ago and I loved it, anyone for whom I reviewed might have noticed that, because I read every piece written about it. So now that there are not more to read, I will have to write my own one. Not one of these long stories, I am awful at them, but just a one parter.

Disclaimer: I owe not a single person in here. That is so, because of my extreme distaste of Mary-Sues. Not to offend anyone who wants to grab J.M. Barrie for themselves, just that I will not do it. Definitely not meaning I would not like to.

Dreaming has gotten harder. A few weeks ago, make-believing had been so easy. And then Sylvia had grown weaker with each passing day. How it had stung to watch her light grow dimmer and dimmer. She had been Tinker Bell, whose glimmer had ceased moment by moment. But no amount of clapping could have saved her. Noone had been able to take her poison from her.

There were times when it felt like an eternity, like all this had happened centuries ago and when I almost feared to forget certain things. When I panicked the second I could not remember the way her eyes twitched when she had laughed.

But there were hours when I felt her presence still lingering in her rooms, in her garden. When I smelled her perfume and saw her hair glitter in the sunlight. When she was so real that the world that surrounded me, was but a fantasy. Those were the hours I wished to stay in.

I had children to take care of now, for wonderful, loving boys, Michael, Jack, George and Peter. The death of their mother had had a devastating effect on them. Each of them mourned her in his own way, one more griveous than the other.

Michael simply did not acknowledge it, he acted as if nothing had happened, as if his mother was on a strange sort of holiday and would return in a few days. But he could not keep up his pretence for long and I worried about what would happen to him, once he accepted that she had died.

Jack cried a lot, he tried to hide it, but failed so miserably at it, that noone could help but notice. He wanted to stay in bed all day long and refused to eat. His eyes were swollen and seemed smaller from the lack of sleep.

George acted out his pain in aggressive tendencies. He tended to have fits of anger, during which he smashed decoration, though I noticed how he always picked the least expensive ones. Trying to appear strong and manly, the only sound of his pain was the cracking of cheap figurines.

Peter retreated into himself. He had stopped talking and simply did not react to questions or orders. His face was pale and haggard and he often stared into the nothingness. He pulled away from every offered comfort and hid in dark corners of the house. He avoided the garden.

They were my lost boys.

I longed to plunge into work, to write the pain off my soul into my notebook, but I failed. My mind was blank and devoid of ideas and full of hurt little boys.

Charles had told me he understood and I actually believed he did. He assured me that "Peter Pan" was a wonderful success and there was no need for me to write anything new for some time. Money would definitely not be a problem. Charles offered to visit and try to help, but I declined. Although I truly was grateful, for his true friendship.

But I accepted the six tickets for "Peter Pan" that Saturday.

When I told Mrs du Maurier about the tickets, the next day, she absolutely refused at first. "This play is only going to strengthen their pain, it will remind them too much of Sylvia and I am not going to have them attending." she scoffed immediately.

Like all of us, Mrs du Maurier had changed as well. If possible, she had grown even more into her sour, scolding, disapproving and stiff mannerism than before. Although we lived as a strange sort of family now, I had not once caught her crying since the funeral. But she seemed older and more tired.

I never would have believed to ever be grateful for the deeds of Captain Hook, but I was. It was her, who made Jack get out of bed, dress, eat and help in the household. She scolded George when he smashed another unimportant porcelaine figure and assigned him more useful tasks. Of course, the boys were not too happy about it.

"You are a heartless, old dragon. You never cry, you do not even care that mother is dead!" George once screamed in a fit at his grandmother. Clash. I flinched as Mrs du Maurier slapped George on the right cheek. Definitely not brutal, but in a way that signified finality. "Go to your room and think about what you have said!" she told him in a way that would have made the bravest man do her bidding, not to mention a small boy.

I wanted to intervene, but this time, I knew I had no right to. I watched her hand, with which she had slapped her grandson, tremble and she fell into one of the chairs. When a tear appeared in her eye, I knew I was an intruder and quietly left.

Half an hour later, George silenty advanced his grandmother. She had already composed herself and was unsucessfully trying to put together the figure, which George had smashed.

"Grandma" his voice was small and fearful. She did not look at him. "I am sorry about what I said to you." he stopped. "I had no right to, I know you are sad about mom too." It was an awfully grown-up thing to do, to go back to Captain Hook on his own and apologize and I felt how proud I was of him. A nod was her only response and George fled the room.

But with all the power she had over the boys, Mrs du Maurier did not suceed in drawing Peter out of his reverie. And she seemed not to be able to talk to Michael and finally make him see that his mother truly was dead.

"We should ask the boys about going to the play." I told her with my most grown-up voice. It was time she accepted me as an equal, not as a sort of overgrown child. But did I really want to be like that, a sad, lost and lonely man instead of the boy who had had dreams and hopes and a fantasy called Neverland.

"Fine" she snapped "but only if all of them agree." I almost grinned for a second, before I called the boys. Such a "family gathering" was something new and through all their loss, they seemed curious as to what was about to happen.

"Charles Frohman has offered me six tickets for todays "Peter Pan" in the first row. It is up to you, do you want to go there? You can refuse, there is no problem with that." I looked at them expectantly.

At first they were silent. Surprisingly it was Peter who spoke first "I would very much like to see it" he said, his voice thin and defeated, but sure of himself. Michael joined in with a happy "yes", Jack nodded slowly and George said "I would like to see it as well" after hesitating for a few minutes.

The childish part flared up in me, Peter Pan had hit a strike at Captain Hook, who clearly disapproved, the lost boys had decided to join him on his adventures. But the moment passed as quick as it had come. This was no battle going on and Mrs du Maurier was not the enemy.

"So you won, James" she glared at me, after the boys had gone to their rooms to get dressed. "Happy about it?" I wondered when I had been happy the last time, it had been the evenings I had played with Sylvia and the children, careless and free and happy.

"This is no war, Emma" I told her. "And no, I am not happy about it, it was the boys decision, not mine. You should stop treating them like small and helpless children, especially George, the have grown much faster than you believe."

She frowned. "They are children, they do not know what is best for them."

"And you do?" I was challenging her and I knew it. "Yes" the iciness in her voice increased "I do, I am their grandmother. And they are just children who need to be looked after or else they get lost."

"Like Sylvia?" I had overstepped my boundaries. With two words I had probably broked the small kind of acceptance we had developed during the last two weeks.

"This has nothing to do with my daughter!" she was getting furious. There was a strange sort of protectiveness in the way she had said it.

It is common knowledge that, no matter how much we try to deny it, there is always a part of both of our parents, inside us, a nose, the hair, eye-colour as well as in our personality. I could see so much of Sylvia in her boys, her kind and compassionate, silent, friendly and loving nature. The way in which she had hidden her illness was the same her boys hid their pain.

This would mean that a part of Sylvia would have to be in Mrs du Maurier as well and I had often tried to find it, but never suceeded. It made me wonder about Sylvias father, who I had never heard a single thing about, who seemed not only to be dead in body, but just as much in spirit.

"No, but it does with your attitude towards your own family." I was about a million miles ahead of my boundaries of speech. "My attitude is none of your concern!" How could you phrase such sentences in a fury?

"Oh, but it is. You might have dismissed the idea, but I am a part of this family now" and believe it or not, it felt good to actually say it.

"Definitely not by my decision." We must have looked like a pair of roosters fighting, as we stood there in the middle of the living room. "No, it was Sylvias and you will have to respect it."

"I will never know how she got the crazy idea to assign you as a guardian for her children." "Well maybe, she feared that you would either turn them into small quivering bundles of fear or worse, into smaller versions of your rigid self."

I was very grateful, when George came in at that moment and asked "Why arent you dressed? We have to go!" And his perfectly suited smaller brothers appeared behind him. How capable of taking care of themselves they had become!

"I am not going." Mrs du Maurier stated. Now, who was the child here ? But a part of me understood that I had dug my sword too deep into Captain Hooks pride.

"But you have to go!" Jack told her and Michael nodded. "If you stay here, grandma, I will as well" Peter forced out of his mouth. Everyone knew how he was the greatest fan of Peter Pan and very proud of his namesake.

They made me feel ashamed. I had shouted and behaved like a child, while they tried to engage their grandmother in some sort of "family activity".

Mrs du Maurier looked unconnvinced. "I am sorry about my behaviour" was forced out of my mouth. Somewhere Peter Pan yelped in agony.

"I am very glad, that you decided to watch the play tonight" Charles honestly told Mrs du Maurier who still looked like she had bitten into a citrus fruit. "It was quite a battle" I whispered into his ears and Charles smiled. "You seemed to have won" he answered.

Soon we were seated, the boys in the middle, me on their right and Mrs du Maurier at their left. The curtain rose and the crowd clapped. The writer in me could not help feeling proud at looking around the full theatre.

During the play my gaze often driften over to my companions. It was so obvious how much the boys missed their mother. George had his hands clenched together and tried to appear strong as Mrs Darling put her children to bed. Jacks tears ran down his cheeks as Peter told the Darling children about the liberty of flying.

"Mom will not come back, right?" Michael silently whispered to me. "No, she will not come back. But she will always watch you, take care of you, be proud of you and love you." I told him and he sniffed, finally accepting and crying.

I noticed Mrs du Maurier weeping when Tinker Bells light faded and noone in the entire theatre clapped with more force to keep her alive. Peter shyly offered her a hankerchief and she stroked the boys hair instead, as I had watched Sylvia often do it.

Sylvia. It hurt when I watched the lost boys saying how much they missed a mother.

"I hope you know how much I loved you" I silently prayed "how often I dwell on what could have been. If we had only had more time. If only you had stayed here with us." Something wet ran over my right cheek.

"But I guess there is no use in these what ifs! I want to thank you for what you have shown me, for what gift you have given to me, for the trust you put in me. Thank you for giving me a family!"


	2. Another sickness

Authoress note: I just experienced the quickest mind change ever. So this story (if I may call it so) will get more chapters, though they are not exactly combined to each other, so these are going to be shots out of the lives that take place after Sylvias death. When I start writing this, I have no idea about how you reacted to my first try (which I posted this morning). Hehe and lucky me who leaves for holidays tomorrow, will only know until over a week later, when I can bathe in your reviews. Arrogance is the downfall! PS: Thanks for the reviews, I am very glad you liked it, wow what compliments. So I hope you gulp down this one!

It is often said that time can heal everything. But I am not so sure, this saying is true.

A month ago Sylvia died and left behind a mother, four sons and a dear friend, who would have gladly given up his existence to be more, behind in mourning. And although the tears poured less often, the pain did not cease to be.

While trying to distract the boys with childish games and plays, I tried to keep my own mind preoccupied as well.

Today a thick grey fog hovered above the lands and was the first sign of the oncoming fall. Still I wanted to take the boys out into the park. Michael had been very depressed the last days and I felt the need to make him smile a bit. In the luming presence of his grandmother this proved to be rather a challenge and so I decided on the park.

"Certainly not with this storm coming up!" was of course Mrs du Mauriers answer.

"We will return as soon as there is the smallest sign of rain, a storm or the worlds end, great indian chief honor word." I swore to the delight of the boys. She opened her mouth, certainly to express her discontentment, but we had already dashed out of the house.

The boys were overjoyed to get out and happily greeted the park, although Peter coughed a bit. During our little play of "The four brave knights against the fire-spitting dragon" in which I did a formidable job at acting out their grandmother and spitting fire, I prouded myself as quite convincing as the boys pretended to waver their branches at me.

In the middle of the final defeat in which the dragon, meaning I, had been reduced to a small lizard that shivered at the sight of the fearless tamers, a downpour caught us.

I admit not having kept an eye on the weather and being rather surprised, when the sudden huge amount of cold water fell down on us. "Off we go! Quick!" and we hurried back towards the house. I could only imagine how Mrs du Maurier would react, certainly by breathing a lot of fire.

Lucky me that some time was stalled while she scolded the boys, told them to dry themselves off, ordered them to drink a cup of hot tea and then immedeately go to sleep in dry clothing.

Unfortunately this proved not to be long enough for me. "Well, what exactly were you thinking? That is, if you were at all!" the dragon surely had the power to roast me alive.

"I did not see the weather come up" it sounded like something incredibly childish to say.

"I saw it coming up, even before you left" she made sure I had not forgotten her warning.

If the boys had been left to her care alone, the only thing the would be able to play would probably be cards and later chess, in a dark, dusty room with their grandmother.

I would most definitely not tell her that I was sorry. To the small amount of dignity I still had in her eyes, which was about the size of a pea, I would cling. Instead I settled on "I will heed your advice next time" spoken in a forced, upper-class English.

"I certainly will make sure you do!" the dragon hissed and exited the room. That had been half as bad and long as I had expected it to be.

But as I should know by now, life is not honey and bliss, but stones and thorns.

When I woke the boys next morning, I immediately noticed that something was wrong with Peter. There was sweat on his pale forehead and his hair was plastered onto his skull. He shivered and when I touched his brow, he was burning with fever. When he opened his eyes, they were unfocused and glassy. "Uncle Jim" he mouthed

His brothers were staring at him, they had slept soundly, Jack had even been snoring, until I had woken them, and they were shocked at their brothers sight.

"Go and get your grandmother, immediately" I told George and he spurted out of the room.

"Peter" I knelt down at his side and took his small hand into mine. "Where does it hurt?" I asked softly and stroked his hair out of his face. "Everywhere" the boy tried to appear strong.

"What happened?" Mrs du Maurier rushed in, George must have been really convincing, as she even still wore her white nightgown. When she noticed Peter, her eyes got a sort of frantic gaze and I heard her whisper "Not again!"

"Why are you just standing there?" she snapped at the boys. "Get a cold, wet towel and make some peppermint tea. And you" her eyes could have sent me to hell right there "call the doctor, he has to come this instant." I nodded weakly and stood up, but turned around again.

"I am not going to kill my grandson" she said, but it sounded less commanding, more like a frog had gotten caught in her throat, as she pushed Peter, who appearantly tried to sit up, back down.

"Yes, doctor, you must come now, the boy needs immideate treatment" I hung up the phone and hurried back in the direction of the boys bedroom.

On the way, Michael, who helped Jack with the tea, caught my sleeve. He looked at me out of the fearful eyes of a small child. "Does Peter have to die like mommy did?" he asked with tears in his eyes and a seriousness, no boy his age should know.

"No, of course not." was my answer, but who was I trying to convince? When I had been a child myself, I had often hated the grown-ups for lying and promised myself to only say the truth. I was not so sure about my answer any more, but it seemed to calm Michael a bit.

George had already handed the wet cloth to his grandmother and she carefully placed it on Peters forehead.

"I called the doctor, he promised to be here in half an hour." I told her and kneeled down next to Peters bed again. "You are such a brave knight" I told him and it scared me when he did not even manage a small smile. "Only because the dragon is being nice right now" he rasped and his voice was little more than a whisper.

"Can you take care of him for ten minutes?" the nice dragon asked me and I nodded dumbly, well, at least she still trusted me with the boy.

After fifteen minutes she came in again, dressed and with the doctor trailing behind her.

She seemed uncomfortable and agitated around the white-clad man and I noticed why. It was the same doctor who had treated Sylvia. Now I do not believe in fate, destiny or omens, but I thought this was no good sign.

"Would you leave me alone with the patient." and we left the room, not too happy.

Emma du Maurier stared at me with a level of dislike, not reached before. "I know, okay, I know it is my fault. Does it make you feel better now that I admitted it?" I let my shame come out. "No, it does not" and she went off towards the other boys, me trailing behind her like some lost puppy.

"I have to tell you, that it is very serious. The boy has caught himself a pneumonia . He will need to take these, every morning and evening." He handed Mrs du Maurier a glass full of pills. Of course he needs to stay in bed. No loud talking and no laughing. I suggest his brothers sleep in another room for the time being. He should be as warm and comfortable as possible. I will come to visit in four days. If a drastic change occurs, you may call me at any time." and with that he excused himself.

"What is wrong with Peter?" "Will he be okay?" the boys threw their concerned questions at us. "Your brother is very sick" Mrs du Maurier told them in a grave-like voice. "You will have to sleep in another room until he recovers. You are not to visit him and you have to be quiet in the house. Understood?" Michael had started crying again, but Jack and George nodded sadly.

"Why did you not allow the boys to even visit their brother?" I asked her later.

"You should be glad I even let you see him and I hope you are grown-up enough to not overexercise him."

The day seemed endless, with countless tries of aiding Peter, none of which helped and Mrs du Maurier and me taking turns at looking after his needs. I told the boys to go to bed early, for once not caring if they would be one day older the next morning.

I tried to console them, but my words seemed hollow and meaningless. I tried telling them a crime story, but there was no plot and when a sick boy turned out to be the main character, I gave up. I kissed them goodnight and told them not to worry, which was very useless.

When I wanted to enter Peters room, I noticed Emma sitting in a chair next to to sleeping boy and actually praying. That struck me quite as odd, as I had never figured her much of the believing-in-god type and not once had seen her go to church. But what else could she have done with her hands clasped tightly together and the silent whispering of words I could not understand. Those who believed in fairies were not welcome, and I left.

The next hours were spent sitting on the couch in the living room, staring at the wall and tormenting myself. In my mind I apologized to Sylvia for not taking care of her beloved boy and I felt like a father who had failed in protecting his son.

When the clock struck eleven and Mrs du Maurier had still not returned from Peters room, I went upstairs to find her asleep in the chair. She was snoring slightly and her right hand still lay on Peters pillow. I draped a blanket over her and checked on Peter, who was twitching and sweating, but who otherwise seemed asleep as well.

After that I sat down on Georges bed until I must have dozed off myself.

How quickly one can develop parental instincts. I awoke with a startle, as soon as I heard Peter twitching and moaning. Never had I been as quick to rise and hurry to the boys bedside. I considered waking Emma, but she was still snoring so peacefully, that I did not dare.

The small boy seemed even smaller and whimpered in his sleep. I bent closer to understand and drew back in shock when he murmured "Mommy" and "Neverland".

"What happened?" Mrs du Maurier frowned at me the minute she awoke. "He is just dreaming" I told her, trying to convince myself. "Daddy" Peter said and with still closed eyes, his small hand tried to grab onto mine. "He is not dreaming, James" Emmas voice quivered "he is on his way to Neverland." I rubbed the small hand.

"Yes, I am here son, stay here, with me. I will take care of you, I promise." I told him, as Emma rushed out to call the doctor. If ever there had been an emergency, this certainly was one.

"We have to wake him up. If he falls asleep, he might…" she stopped. "You have to wake up, son" I told him gently. "Daddy" he whispered and I felt my heart crash. "Peter!" George, Jack and Michael skidded into the room. "Out!" their grandmother bellowed.

"Do not…roast them…dragon" Peters silent voice was heard, but he forced his small eyes open. Mrs du Maurier frowned and sat down in her chair.

"Should I tell you a story?" I asked him and he nodded. I tried hard to think of something not along the lines of "There was a small boy, who was very sick and his grandmother and his father worried a lot, if he would recover and hated the doctor who took his time."

"Tell me about Neverland" he whispered and I hesitated. Would that not drive him even further into the endless sleep?

"Do you want to know what your mother was like, when she was a girl?" Emma asked unexpectantly. Peters eyes gleamed and he looked curious, although he kept shivering. It was clear the boys knew nothing about their mothers childhood. And I caught myself nodding enthusiastically as well.

"Well, when she was seven, she brought a boy over to play." she again gave me what I secretly called "the look"although I had no idea what I had done this time. "He was two years older, but behaved like a six year old, no manners and his head in the clouds. He always told her stories of goblins and elves and Sylvia was very taken with him. After knowing him for ten days she told me "Mom, I am going to marry Peter." The listening Peter and I were quite surprised at this name equality.

"One afternoon, this Peter came wearing a scots gown" she scowled "the traditional way." I could not help it and laughed and Peter managed to smile. Mrs du Maurier had actually, certainly without planning on it, managed to amuse us.

"What happened to Peter?" the boy asked, but was interrupted by a terrible coughing fit.

When it had passed, his grandmother answered "Of course I threw him out and forbade him to see my daughter again." as if that had been the only possible option. "Of course" I mumbled.

When I heard a loud knock at the door and went off to open for the doctor, the lost boys were just sweeping around the house like ghosts, silent and sad. "Peter is strong" I told them "he will make it" it sounded more like a plea, than a promise.

Once more the doctor wanted to be left alone with the suffering boy. I wanted to console George, Jack and Michael, but my grief was too immense not to drown them with me. "Did I not tell you to stay away from Peters room as long as he is sick?" I heard Emma hiss and her voice was dangerously close to the cliff.

I found Michael kneeling on the floor and crying, hugging his knees tightly to his chest.

"He just wanted to know how Peter is doing!" George tried to stand up to the Captain Hook/dragon crossover. "We all do. And you never tell us anything. You treat us just like children, who have no idea. But we are more grown-up than you think or trust us to be and we deserve to know what is happening to our brother!"

No trace of the boy seemed to be left, he had grown older than myself in a few weeks. And there was nothing spectacular or interesting in the sight, only sadness. The loss of innocence.

"You should be grateful" Mrs du Mauriers voice had grown silent all the sudden. And for maybe the first time ever, I really understood her and I agreed (partly). She was trying to protect the boys from the pain and harshness of the real world in the only way she knew to.

But she could not see that it was a task that could not be fulfilled, they had already seen too much, their eyes were older than their bodies and the carefreeness was gone. They would turn around if they heard steps behind them from now on, they would not trust a person who stared at the floor while promising them something and worst of all, they would think before they acted. The thought would destroy all their impulsive and childish actions.

"What for?" Georges aggressive tendencies were getting the better of him. His grandmother always managed to bring him to the boiling point.

"That both our parents are dead, that our brother is lying sick in bed and we do not know whether he will make it, that there are still enough people at the park who curse us with their pitying glances, that we have to live with our strict, unloving grandmother and listen to her constant dressing-downs and quarrels with Uncle James. What exactly should we be grateful for?" George stormed outside.

There had been many occasions when I had wished the pest on Mrs du Mauriers head and when seeing her getting swallowed by a huge crocodile would have been a welcome sight.

But there was no hidden joy or desire in revenge that I felt when she broke down. "He did not mean it like that" Jack tried to apologize, deadly frightened at seeing his grandmother like this. "I am sorry" Michael mumbled and dropped his head.

There was something awkward in the way Emma du Maurier clenched her fists and tried to stand still inspite of her trembling. She turned from the boys in a desperate attempt to hide her tears from them. What was she trying to prove? Was being human that terrible a fate?

At closer contact, there was nothing intimidating, dangerous or hateful about her. When I pulled her into a hug and she turned into a broomstick, there was a moment when I for once was the parent who tried to give comfort. But it only lasted until my own tears trailed down my cheeks. Jack and Michael were clinging at our waists as if we were in some sort of family therapy.

The doctor came out of Peters room and the immediate silence would have heard a fairy cough. Painful seconds of not knowing why. "Congratulations" the doctor said as seriously as he would have in case of a death "he seems to be over the hill. Two weeks in bed and continuation of the current treatment and he will be fine."

"Thank god" Emma whispered and my heart burst with the momentaneous joy. My son would recover!


End file.
